The Tuesday Poem: November Day, For Joan MacKernan

Tuesday, April 15, 2014

1.
3am
Then, there is prayer.
The act of praying, of being inside the tree
and kneeling down inside the tree.

Of being still as a still pond
and being inside the pond.
Lying down with water in prayer.
Then, there’s the habit of rhythm
body seconds, 0.9 of a second
pumping the prayer
and there’s a bowing down inside the body
of prayer, being inside the life
is prayer.
Being there.

1.40pm
Birds lift from the wet earth
unfurl into cloud, soar across the sky
and I wonder if I wait here will wind lift me,
carry me as light above the land?

2.
5.15pm
Evening light creeps in.
Shadows spread across the paving.
A wren pulls cotton
from a rag hanging by the studio door.
And that long shadow is not my son
but a tree’s arm spreading,
slipping into his body with a familiar sway.

For a second, I see him out there
against the weathered timber.

11.30pm

Diary Entry: To my mother.
Winter. Water stills.
Everything falls inward.
The well is full of stars
and the night sky
is a constellation of swallows.